Alter the Ending
by BelleLitteraire
Summary: AU drabbles featuring Evan Marks that incorporate events of 1x06 - 1x09, and then goes off canon.
1. Awakening

_A/N: Happy New Year!_

_For those following the missing moments/Evan POV series, I have to apologize. The last few eps have practically dashed any inspiration to continue exploring a potential Evan-Cat romance, and well, I just can't write about Heather either. So I'll be incorporating canon details into alternate scenarios. These stories won't exactly follow show timeline. _

_Dedicated to **astoria26, **a reader I met on this board, and fellow Evan-Cat shipper._

* * *

**Awakening**

"This isn't murky, Cat. It's simple, okay?"

-Evan Marks to Cat Chandler, referring to their dinner date at Per Se

* * *

Sometimes the key to happiness is expecting a little bit less of life. That way you'll never be disappointed. And your heart never gets shattered.

As Evan strode away, back to the bowels of the precinct where his office was situated, he thought about what he just said to Cat. Was he really going to be patient? After another date rudely forgotten, another promise conveniently broken? Last night he spent an entire evening talking to a plethora of beautiful women besides Cat, and then took a solitary cab ride back home after seeing her dash off to a strange man clearly not dressed for or interested in joining the gallery crowd.

Evan settled heavily in his office chair and turned his computer on. He suddenly felt weariness wash over him: he was so tired of asking, of hearing her come up with excuses, of seeing her rejection in her body language and in her eyes. All of it told him in a hundred different ways: no. It was exhausting playing it cool and collected—pretending that none of it affected him—whenever Cat reminded him that he was only ever going to be her colleague and friend. But didn't even friendships take work? Lately Evan felt as though he was the only one pulling the weight on their relationship, always being there for Cat whenever she needed him. He stared at his email Inbox and saw a message from Claire Sinclair, subject line: _Nice meeting you (eom)._ Evan sighed audibly and ran a palm over his face. Great, he was also one of those jerks who promises a woman a post-date phone call and never makes it. Claire's message only reminded him that he was so preoccupied with the birthday kiss and then the dinner date that he hadn't even given her a second thought.

_You're a first-class wanker_, he thought to himself. He almost clicked the message to reply apologetically to Claire, but what would he say? Suddenly the ever-witty Evan was at a loss for words, and he swiveled around in his chair. Just a few minutes ago he had offered Cat his most charming smile and uttered lines, so well-rehearsed, delivered without missing a confident beat. Sometimes he said things with more self-assurance than he felt. When you're faking the confidence you don't feel, too much bravado is never a bad thing. But perhaps the perception that he was just a self-absorbed flirt had gotten the better of him. In a flash of sudden, blinding clarity, he realized that the stars did not align for him and Catherine, and his frayed heartstrings will never sing for the beauty who did not see him for what he really was.

"Time to get down to brass tacks, Marks," he said aloud in an attempt to shake himself out of despondency. As he pulled on his lab coat and another case file from the docket, his black and white perspectives came sharply back into focus—love should not have to be this complicated.

And he wasn't going to wait for it to rain.


	2. Abduction

**Abduction**

"Doesn't it ever get to you? Only being a spectator and never actually accomplishing anything yourself?"

-Evan Marks' captor

* * *

Evan's first tipoff that there were changes afoot in the precinct occurred when he was on his way to his office. Joe collared him in the corridor. "Hey, Evan, I finally got you the help you've been squawking about for months."

A happy image of smaller piles of paperwork and case files in the docket flickered in Evan's head and he followed Joe into his office. "You've finally got clearance for me to hire a new assistant?"

"Better. And it costs me nothing," Joe smirked. "I got you an intern."

"An intern?" Evan's face fell. "You mean, like a university student? Someone who hasn't got the qualifications to actually perform autopsies?"

"You said you needed the help and that was the best I could do with no budget."

"But an intern is not going to be helpful. I need someone who can actually do some of the work, not follow me around pestering me with questions."

Joe stiffened and crossed his arms. He obviously wasn't getting the reaction he expected. "Well, take it or leave it. I got clearance on a work-study program with the local college, but if you don't want the intern, then I'll revoke it and set up ride-alongs."

Evan's cell phone rang and the ME office was on the line summoning him to a crime scene. "Dr. Marks speaking. Yes, Northam University. I'll be right there." He jammed his phone back into his jacket pocket. Some help was better than none. "My apologies, Joe. I'll take the intern."

Joe started to rifle through the papers in his mail tray. "Good. Peter Hollingsworth will be here tomorrow morning."

* * *

The second tipoff happened some days later, when, desperate for tea, Evan was on his way to the break area. If he was honest with himself he really just wanted to get away from the insufferable Peter Hollingsworth the Third for fifteen minutes. The break area was unconventionally set up right above the precinct foyer. It was the captain's idea to set it up in this space, and he had several reasons for doing so. It was primarily designed to foster open communication amongst the officers when they congregated for coffee. But the omission of chairs and tables also meant that a break was to last for as long as it took to consume a cup of coffee in a busy vestibule, and it discouraged the idea that a break room was a place where quick naps could be snatched between shifts. The long table was perennially stocked with assorted sugary pastries and bottomless coffee and hot water. Behind the captain's back, the officers grumbled that any other ordinary precinct had an actual break room—that is, one with walls and tables and chairs, not a half-assed catering table. Yet if it had been set up conventionally anywhere else, Evan would not have heard her. Or seen her.

"I assure you, Lieutenant, biometric identification is the future of security technology." A young blonde with hair primly pulled back addressed Joe as he poured a cup of coffee. Her cream trench coat was open to reveal a soft pink blouse and cream knee-length skirt. She was holding the handles of her leather briefcase in front of her with both hands, but she let go with one hand to decline a cup that Joe was offering her.

Joe scoffed and drank from the refused cup. "Miss Smoak, I'll admit that I'm giving you the time of day because our captain is one of those avant-garde, 'out-of-the-box' thinkers and I've gotta tell him that I gave you the grand tour. But, really, look around. This place is crawling with blue. Why in hell should we invest in this bio whatever security?"

Miss Smoak nudged the bridge of her rectangular frames up and smiled at Joe as though she was used to being looked upon with skepticism, or worse, simply ridiculed. "There are sensitive areas in this building that I believe would benefit from our technology. The evidence rooms, holding cells, not to mention the crime lab….these spaces need more safety measures in place than just a swipe of a plastic ID card. We can offer state-of-the-art identifiers for those with security clearance from their shape of their ears or their DNA to their gait, heartbeat, and body odor."

Joe guffawed and almost choked on his coffee. "Okay, now I've heard enough. A system that decides whether or not you have clearance based on how much BO you have? Forget it." He drew a palm forward to indicate that the tour and meeting were over.

Miss Smoak blushed furiously, color spreading quickly over her fair complexion, knowing she'd committed another blunder of simply talking too much. "Of course, we also have run-of-the-mill identifiers: retina, fingerprint, or voice. We would be happy to negotiate on the installment fee," she added in a last ditch attempt to convince Joe. She pressed her lips together when he didn't respond and simply waited for her. Finally she nodded. "I do appreciate the time you've given Queen Consolidated this afternoon, Lieutenant Bishop. You may not believe you have a security problem now, but you shouldn't be caught in a position where you wish you had one in place. Your captain is a believer in taking precautions. I hope you'll give this some thought."

At work there are always people who never get beyond nods and smiles in the corridors, simply because your paths never happen to cross anywhere else. As Miss Smoak made her way downstairs, she swept past Evan sipping from a mug of hot tea. Over the rim he looked into eyes that were the blue of swimming pools, and in the space of time it took for his pulse to leap, Miss Smoak's charming face was firmly imprinted in Evan's memory.

* * *

Work was the best prescription for a distracted mind. Something about the clinical atmosphere of the stainless steel room and the smell of rubbing alcohol always reminded him of death. But nonetheless, in a strange, inexplicable way, this was Evan's milieu, a place that represented a kind of cold comfort and safety. Since his disastrous performance at Catherine's birthday party and their subsequent failure of a date in a bordello, he had expected some awkwardness between them, but surprisingly, they got on as usual. She even teasingly smiled and tried to suppress giggles whenever she was within earshot of another of Peter's awestruck exclamations.

He assiduously threw himself into the Derek Moore case. There was a familiarity about the slight check mark carved in the victim's body; Evan knew in his bones that he'd seen that carving before, on another body, and he doggedly searched through his previous case files to satisfy his hunch. He had more time to spend on research now that he had Peter tracking and ordering all the tests from tox screens to ballistics.

His intern gradually grew on him. Evan could see a young version of himself in Peter—enthusiastic, eager, and idealistic. Peter told him that it was a dream come true to be able to shadow a medical examiner, someone who held a very important office. As Evan listened to him, his conscience pricked at him for dismissing Peter as a fanboy; he was just a kid who really looked up to him and Evan felt some responsibility in behaving as a proper mentor. When Peter smilingly told him how cool it was to do his job, to be someone who helped to bring about justice, his words really resonated with him, and Evan found himself smiling back.

So it was only logical that Evan—as distasteful a prospect it was to be out in the field—made his way to the Northam Cadaver Laboratory to procure a roster of students who had access to it.

* * *

He blinked several times, each flutter of his eyelids accentuating a massive pounding at the base of his skull. The dull ache spread to his entire head as he moved it slowly, letting his eyes acclimate to his dim surroundings. He was taking shallow breaths as his nostrils were assaulted by dank, putrid air, and in the distance he could hear the faint rumblings of a train. As his vision came into focus he looked down at his legs stretched in front of him and then tried to rise. It was then that he realized his back was pressed into a hard wooden post and his arms pinioned behind him with rough rope. His voice came out raw and sandy. "Hello?"

He heard a slight crunch of steps and Peter Hollingsworth the Third emerged from the shadows, his once affable expression transformed to a look of disdain. "You're awake, Dr. Marks."

**x – x**

With herculean effort, Evan fought back panic, even though his heart was beating at a blistering pace. The chilling realization that Derek was the practice run and that he was the actual intended victim was more than he could bear. He was painfully aware of the tip of the knife at his chest and then its cutting edge at his cheek, and his thoughts tumbled over each other as he tried to control them and choose his words carefully. As he watched Peter twist the blade into the wooden post, pushing and digging into the insides of the old wood, he tried not to imagine it stuck inside of him. The very thought made him shake uncontrollably and he closed his eyes and prayed he would not faint. This was madness—Evan's mind screamed denial, that this wasn't happening to him, that he was not about to lose his life in a cold, dark tunnel. He thought about his parents, and the work that he had left to do. He had just applied for a research grant, and now it seemed as though he wouldn't have the chance to pursue further studies in cross-species DNA. What other regrets did he harbor in the recesses of his heart? Like a child skimming through a flip book, his mind raced through memories of his childhood and youth, of playing cricket, of laughing with his mates at university and medical school, of hazel eyes and pink-lipped smiles, and then swimming pools. Pristine, clear, and blue.

He opened his eyes and surprised himself with how loud and even his voice sounded in the near darkness, as he continued to keep Peter at bay. But unpredictably, Peter lashed out and Evan found himself unleashing a primal shriek—a loud guttural cry of pain and horror and despair.

**x – x**

The splatter of blood hit his cheek and neck, wet and sharp, like the flick of a whip. He flinched and almost fell out of consciousness. A dull roar echoed through the tunnel: it might have been the blood pounding in his ears or the faint rumble of the train, but it also sounded like the growls and snarls of a wild animal. Gunshots jolted him back into focus and he struggled to free himself with a newfound power, putting every ounce of his energy into saving his own life.

And then cool hands were on his face, wiping the blood from his cheek and untying the ropes around his wrists. He felt a wave of relief as he heard soft, soothing murmurs. "It's okay, Evan. You're going to be okay."

* * *

_A/N: Felicity Smoak is an IT professional at Queen Consolidated in the CW's "Arrow." She's incredibly smart and delightfully bumbling. Not sure if her appearance here should categorize this story as crossover...?_


	3. Aftershocks

**Aftershocks**

"Happy little boys don't dream of slicing up bodies."

-Evan Marks to his captor

* * *

"Evan, tell me how you feel," the psychologist said. To begin the session, she had given him a cup of tea and invited him to sit on the couch, but no, he was not going to end up in a fetal position there—he instead pulled forward a chair and sat across from her. He was required to undergo a psychological evaluation and was cautioned not to come back to work too soon. So here he was, in this mandatory hour-long visit with the police shrink and she was asking him to describe his feelings. He wanted, suddenly and fiercely, to reply, "Fuck this all, I quit!" or something reckless and unreasonable. He tried to tamp down resentment, bewilderment, and shame. But it was more than just feeling haunted by his kidnapping. Bottling up all these feelings meant that at any moment they could turn on him—they were savage, full of teeth and talons, and he felt like he was coming apart from the inside. Why did this happen to him? She was looking at him, waiting with steady brown eyes behind horn-rimmed eyeglasses, with an impassivity that might have passed for objectivity, but instead to Evan conveyed a lack of compassion. Her pen was poised over her notebook, and Evan wanted to grab the pen from her hand and throw it and her notebook across the room.

But he didn't. The Brit in him chose the anticlimactic over the irrevocable, and true to form, he lifted his chin and attempted an impression of the illustrious stiff upper lip. "I feel fine," he intoned. If the psychologist was really paying attention, the way Evan held his cup betrayed his feelings: his knuckles were white as he gripped the handle and his hand trembled slightly.

"What is it you British say? Keep calm and carry on?" When he didn't reply, she tried another tack. "Evan, there's no right way to approach this. But just so you know, I'm here to listen…to whatever you'd like to say. No judgments, just talk about whatever you want."

He pressed his lips together in a weak excuse for a smile. "Sometimes when I wake up I think maybe I dreamed it. Every day I lie to myself and say that it's okay. It's the only way I can get myself out of bed."

"What you're doing is coping. That's fine. You're not lying to yourself, because if we take this day by day, you will be okay."

Words started to tumble from Evan's mouth like water being drawn from a well. "I can't properly close my eyes at night because I see my intern lurching above me, with menace in his eyes. I still feel the knife at my neck…and that…that feeling of knowing he held my life in his hands…"

"Go on, Evan, it's okay," the psychologist said encouragingly.

"It frightens the bloody piss out of me, and that…_that_ just pisses me off." The psychologist waited, and Evan continued. "And the sounds…I can't get them out of my head, of flesh ripping….and then seeing his body…just…pieces of it…all over the ground."

She scribbled in her notebook and nodded. "But you're used to seeing bodies that end up like that, aren't you?"

Evan took a sip of his tea and set his mug down to hide his shaking hands. "I think what really disturbs me more was his lack of humanity. He had no remorse for what he was going to do to me. The thought of it makes me want to kick myself for being a cross-eyed idiot."

"And why does this bother you?"

"He gave this impression of being honored to work with me." At this Evan gave a short, derisive laugh. "What a joke. I told him that happy little boys don't dream of slicing up bodies. He's made me question who I am, why I do what I do."

The psychologist closed her notebook and took her glasses off, laying them both on her lap. "You and I have been in this long enough to know that fighting crime is a brutalizing business. If you hang around it too long, your heart becomes coarsened and you're no longer sure of why you're in this. I've seen it happen to cops who've spent years listening to perps rationalizing why they did what they did. But I want you to think back, and take your time. Tell me how you got here. Why do you do this job?"

* * *

_It is the summer he comes of age, this sweltering season that represents a turning point in Evan's life. It is a time when The Cure's "Love Song" and U2's "Angel of Harlem" dominates the airwaves. He is a gangly boy with teeth braces who's just shed the smooth tenor treble of a choirboy, and he struggles to keep up with an ever-transforming body. He is also a boy who takes an interest in science but also feels the pressure from his father to get over his shyness by playing team sports. He feels hopeless at cricket, and even less confident about his social skills with the opposite sex—to this boy, girls are mystifying creatures who hang about in groups of no fewer than three and usually snigger at him. But this is the period that is a harbinger of what happens to him, when he learns about the complexity of the adult world and emerges from it wretched but wiser, and the moment he realizes that he is no longer a boy, but a man. _

_It is the summer when he falls in love for the first time._

_This idyllic summer is different from the past holidays he has taken with his parents to the sleepy Yorkshire countryside where his extended family live. Humidity evaporates in the north of England as the sun shines higher and hotter, drying up every last bit of moisture, making it vanish like the end of a vivid dream that is forgotten once you've awakened. In this tightly knit community, people live in neat houses with railed-off grass on the front gardens and everyone knows anyone who comes and goes._

_At the age of thirteen kids are confused and their personalities nebulous. But it was an age when Evan first knew what it was like to press his lips to a girl's, to feel her mouth move under his and see her open her eyes and give him a shy smile. _

_She sat apart from the other guests at his cousin Brian's birthday party, alone at a corner table. She was dressed in tennis whites and she pulled at her short skirt modestly as she crossed first one tanned leg and then the other. She had long, dark hair that she'd twist and coil but it always seemed to free itself in tendrils that fell about her round face. From her Italian father, she inherited an olive complexion and the bold black eyebrows shaped like crow's wings above warm brown eyes that regarded Evan in a fathoms-deep stare. The gently angled nose, the rise of her cheekbones, and bow-shaped lips she'd inherited from her Irish mother gave her entire face the look of an elven princess—at least that was Evan's first thought when he saw her. She did not, however, smile as an elven princess might: with a benevolent twist of her lips or a twinkle in her eyes. Instead, her expression only showed on the bottom half of her face, and did not get as far as her eyes. The very air around her seemed to shimmer with her intensity, and for someone so young she already knew how to own her beauty and it drew people to her. Girls, and some adults even, chatted with her, kissing her on the cheeks as they said hello or goodbye. But they never stayed around her for long, and drifted away after an interval of conversation in which nothing is really said. _

_As Evan watched her, Brian appeared at his side, and handed him a Coke. "Forget it, mate," he said. "Nicola's out of your league."_

"_I don't care about that," Evan scoffed, and then admitted, "Don't you think I know when I'm out of my depth?"_

_Brian took a sip of his Coke. "Then why are you standing here stupidly staring at her?"_

"_She doesn't look like she's having any fun."_

"_She's only here because her dad's got business with mine. She's not here for the party, and she isn't staying." Brian shrugged and walked away._

_Nicola gazed around the room. She looked at her watch and then, as though feeling the weight of Evan's eyes on her, looked up._

_An hour later, Nicola's dad had gone, and her tennis lesson missed. Evan was filling two plastic cups with soda and Brian came over to the refreshment table. "How on earth is Nicola Moreci still here?"_

_Evan shrugged. "No one else was paying any attention to her. So I did."_

**x – x**

"_Nope," Nicola laughed and licked her mint chocolate chip ice cream cone. "I don't listen to Bono."_

"_How could you say that? What about The Cure?" She giggled again and shook her head after every band Evan named. "Fine Young Cannibals?...Tears for Fears? I give up. Whose music do you listen to?"_

_She grinned widely and took another lick of her cone. "The Bangles."_

_Evan groaned and got a light shove. _

"_Have you heard 'Eternal Flame'? That song makes me cry!"_

"_Okay, who else?"_

"_Mmm…I like New Kids on the Block."_

"_Oh Lord, you are killing me, Nic. Next you'll be telling me you like Dino…." Evan pulled on her messy braid._

_Nicola made a face at Evan. "When I grow up I want to be a triple threat," she said with determination. "I want to be a dancer, a choreographer, and a singer…just like Paula Abdul."_

_Evan chuckled. "Really?"_

"_Yes, you don't think I could do it?"_

"_I don't know. It'll be interesting to find out," he grinned._

"_Paula Abdul is a superstar. It wouldn't surprise me if she were to be a talent coach or a judge in a competition someday—she is that brilliant. Just you wait Evan Marks, I am going to prove it to you." She sighed and then ate the last of her cone. "What do you want to be when you grow up?"_

_And then Evan couldn't help it—perhaps it was the dreamy quality in her eyes or the ferocity with which she aimed high in life—he leaned in and kissed Nicola full on her cool lips. Once he had fiercely pressed his lips to hers, he eased up a little, partly because of shyness, and partly due to fear—he was expecting at any second for her to push him away and slap him. But she didn't, and instead she pulled him in closer and wrapped her soft arms around his neck. When they finally pulled apart Evan's heart leapt at the look in Nicola's eyes, and he never forgot it._

_At fourteen years old, Nicola was beautiful, but she was also damned. As the summer drew to a close, their teen romance ended. But it was not due to either of them breaking it off, for Nicola went missing one morning. Evan rode his bicycle to meet her at the market cross and waited for her for two hours. He could not recall the exact order of events from the time that she failed to show up, but he knew that in the scrum of frantic memories, he had talked to police, his parents, and Nicola's own distraught father and mother. She was found lifeless four days later in the nearby wood, and Evan's recollections of the rest of that summer were hazy after that._

* * *

It was oppressively quiet in the psychologist's office—except for what faint street noises he heard outside, and the ominous vibration he felt when a bus or a heavy truck motored past. He didn't remember all of the details of what happened to him in the tunnel—it was amazing what the mind can retain and erase—few piercingly clear images, but mostly he attributed that night to a subliminal state that could've been blamed on witchcraft or unseen monsters and nighttime creatures. One thing he was certain of: that there were lost pockets of time he could not recapture. In ways too dark to be called metaphorical, there were pieces of him left behind in Yorkshire during that summer Nicola had died, and pieces of him still in that tunnel. For the second time in his life, Evan was faced with a choice, to make use of the time he had, or to become retiring and scared. He was alive, and he had work to do.

"I'm going to focus on the fact that I'm alive," he solemnly told the psychologist.

She dropped her notebook and bent hastily to pick it up, but not before Evan spied what she had written: Possible dissociative fugue state…temporary memory loss due to a previously experienced trauma….Sense of unreality, expressing itself as a hyper-awareness of the irrelevant.

Evan's jaw clenched. The low ceiling pressed down claustrophobically and the wound in his leg started to ache, reminding him it was time to take another painkiller. "This is a waste of time. Coping strategies are for the weak-minded," he said with finality and rose with some effort. He didn't mean to raise his voice but it came out sounding too loud. The psychologist started to protest but Evan ignored her as he gathered his coat and left her office.


	4. Acuity

**Acuity**

"Too much has happened for me to let that go."

-Evan Marks to Cat Chandler, referring to his abduction in the subway tunnels

* * *

Evan scanned his dim surroundings, his eyes adjusting to the weak light that shone from his flashlight. He moved forward stealthily, footsteps raspy on the gravel, until he found the wooden post he was bound to. A part of him wanted to unflinchingly go after that pillar with a baseball bat and swing away at it with the kind of wild cathartic vengeance that only tragedy can elicit. But as he took in the entire scene of the crime, of where he was held and subsequently rescued by Cat, it made him wonder whether hacking at that post would make him feel any less haunted. He winced as in a flash of memory he saw Peter and his lips curled back in a strange grimace. Evan reached into his pocket and drew out a switchblade, its cold steel sharp and glinting. He crouched down, searching the ground for where evidence markers had been pressed. A rumble echoed through the tunnel—a train was passing overhead, raining down grit and dust and covering his leather jacket and head with a gray film. Evan bent closer to the ground, accelerating his search before more bits of gravel covered up what he was looking for. Placing his flashlight between his teeth and drawing out a plastic evidence bag from his back pocket, he stabbed mercilessly at the ground until he collected enough of a sample for a DNA test.

* * *

Evan swiped his ID badge and heard the familiar beep and click of the lock gaining him entry into his lab. As he opened the door, he barreled right into a briefcase. The owner of that briefcase, an overweight figure in a too-small lab coat, almost knocked him over as he rushed from the lab. He heard a sharp intake of breath and saw eyes that quickly registered fear and nervousness, and the man furtively hunched over his precious cargo and scurried into the hallway.

"Hey, mind where you're going, mate," Evan called after him.

None of the morgue assistants or the technicians were in the lab. Something crunched underneath his foot and Evan picked up a cracked test tube. Frowning, he noticed the hum of his DNA analyzer as the machine was powering down. His sixth sense was now ringing alarms as he laid a palm on it—still warm.

Heart beating wildly, Evan sprinted out of his lab, dodging and flying past officers and detectives, leaving in his wake surprised cries and grunts. He pushed past a precinct clerk carrying a stack of files and—too late to avoid her!—the papers exploded out of her hands. The elevator doors at the end of the hallway were closing and Evan slammed his fist into the shut doors, poking repeatedly at the Up button. Bolting up the stairs, he legged it two steps at a time, and charged through towards the main foyer, but not before he almost ran over Cat and Tess, who parted like the Red Sea. "Evan?" cried Cat as he raced past her. She followed him, calling after him, "Evan, where are you going?"

At the front desk, Evan called out to the officer on duty. "Hey, did you see someone leave a few minutes ago? Guy about five eleven, portly, with curling hair, holding a briefcase? He might have been wearing a lab coat?"

The officer stretched. "Yeah, he was speed walking out of here. Kinda looked shifty but you morgue guys always look that way to me."

"Damn it, he broke into my lab!" Evan bellowed.

He burst through the precinct doors, looking frantically left and right at the passerby but the intruder was now nowhere to be found. Cat and the desk officer breathlessly caught up to him. "Evan, what's going on?" she asked.

"Someone's broken into my lab."

"What? How do you know?"

"He used my DNA analyzer and some of my tools. This is a serious breach." Addressing the officer, he pointed his finger and said, "I want today's entrance footage pulled. And I want the sketch artist to take down my description."

Cat reached for Evan, searching his face. "Evan, calm down, please. What would he have taken? Are you sure it wasn't a new lab guy?"

_My private research on genetic mutations, that's what,_ Evan thought. "Bloody hell, Catherine, you would think I know who works down in the morgue. Someone was in there who had no business to be." He glared at the officer. "Why are you still standing there?"

The officer looked at Cat, and she nodded. "Do as he says." She turned back to Evan and said in a voice he thought sounded like exaggerated patience. "Listen, it's understandable that you'd react like this. You're traumatized. What you went through was brutal."

He saw concern etched on her face, but he also saw doubt. "That doesn't mean I'm making this all up. I'm not imagining people breaking and entering the morgue."

Cat looked away, seemingly at a loss for words. He shrugged off her hands and his jaw was rigid as he struggled to keep his voice level. "I don't have time to try and convince you right now. I need to talk to Joe about setting up security in my lab."

**One week later**

Miss Smoak furiously typed on her laptop, her fingers flying over her keyboard and her lower lip in the grip of her teeth as she completed the setup of the new biometric security system in the precinct's lab. With a definitive tap on the Enter key, she rose from her chair in Evan's office and went in search of her client.

She found him, alone in the lab, working in the pale, steady light from the buzzing overhead fluorescents. The smell of the room had a sharp edge to it, acidic and cold like paint thinner poured over ice. He alternated between peering intently into his microscope, adjusting the magnification knobs and then scribbling madly into a notebook. She hated to interrupt what looked like some really intense observation and documentation, so she waited quietly for him to look up. After what seemed like minutes, she cleared her throat. "Dr. Marks?"

Startled, Evan sharply looked up from his microscope. "Oh. Yes, Miss Smoak?"

"Um, I'm all done with the security setup. I can see you're really busy, but I need to show you how the new system works. It'll just take ten minutes."

"Right. Yes. Just a moment." Evan pored through his notes, reading what he recorded in silence and then closed his notebook. He carefully removed the slide from the microscope.

As he did, Miss Smoak watched him, and then, awkwardly realized she was staring so she tried to fill the uncomfortable silence. "I think you'll be happy with the new security setup. You won't have to worry anymore about B&Es."

Evan gave her a small smile. "My lieutenant is now rather keen on acceding to my requests these days."

"Uh…yes, well I heard about what happened to you…."

"I don't really wish to talk about it," Evan said curtly as he secured the dirt samples into an airtight plastic container and locked it and his notebook in one of the overhead cabinets.

Miss Smoak rapidly searched her brain for something else to talk about, something a little less intrusive. "Did you know that in the late nineteenth century ladies would be given a vinegar-scented bouquet if they had to go to the morgue to identify a body? It was supposed to disguise the smell of the decomposing flesh."

Evan chuckled softly as he pocketed the keys. "Am I meant to be giving you flowers whilst you're here in my lab, Miss Smoak?"

"Uh…no, of course not," Miss Smoak stammered and blushed, and she pushed the bridge of her eyeglasses. "I'm just…um…it seems you're hard at work at some puzzle."

Evan felt a slight tug at his heart. "Sort of. What's your interest in scientific research?"

"Oh, none, really. I mean, I just like solving mysteries."

"A techie like you?"

"Well, there's really no difference between what I do and what you do. It's all about deciphering codes."

Evan crossed his arms and leaned against the lab table. "Really?"

"Yes. I mean, I work with a set of codes that I program as commands for a specific task. I can look at lines and lines of these commands to figure out where there might be weaknesses in the overall code, you know, anyplace that a hacker might be able to get in a bug, or worse, a worm. Kind of like figuring out where there might be anomalies...or, uh, rather, glitches in code…." Miss Smoak hesitated, realizing that she was just rambling, and she pressed her lips together.

Evan tilted his head and his eyes narrowed. "I beg your pardon, but how does that have any bearing on what I do?"

"Hm?"

"You said a minute ago, Miss Smoak, that there was no difference in the work we did. It's all about deciphering codes. That's an awfully perceptive thing to say."

What she said next made the hairs on the back of Evan's neck stand up. "Dr. Marks, I know all about your cross species research. You're studying DNA mutations."


	5. Acquaintances

**Acquaintances**

"Oh my God. You _are_ in love with him. I can tell."

-Heather to Cat

* * *

"You have no right—" Evan started to sputter angrily.

Miss Smoak raised her palms before her and cautiously stepped towards him. "Wait, before you get the wrong idea, I didn't mean to snoop. Honest, you have to believe me. I was setting up the security protocols in your office and just happened to see the grant award letter on your desk."

"So you decided to read it? That was a private letter, Miss Smoak!" He drew his palm across his tired eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "For someone who works in security, you really are an awful busybody."

"I'm really sorry, Dr. Marks. You have to know I wasn't going through your papers."

Evan gave her a long, appraising look, trying to gauge whether he could trust her. But trust was a choice, and he could see by the earnestness in her face that she really meant no harm. "I haven't spoken openly about this to anyone here."

"Please, don't worry about me. I'm pretty good at keeping secrets." He didn't say anything in response to that, so she hastened to add, "I should probably leave. I won't activate the new system tonight. I'll…I'll come back tomorrow and do that." Miss Smoak reached for the lab's door handle, and then with a penitent backward glance, offered, "For what it's worth, I think it's amazing what you're doing. You're really on the cutting edge of scientific discovery. And…and I just…wanted to wish you luck."

* * *

Cat lay in bed staring at the shadows on her ceiling, listening to the faint sirens in the distance that penetrated her quiet bedroom. It was times like this, when the insomniac in her wished that she was still a beat cop working a night shift. She'd be out on patrol with her partner prowling the city streets, keeping watch while its citizens slept peacefully and safely in their beds.

But tonight, she was one of those citizens lying in bed but sleep would not come. Vincent had tapped at her bedroom window but he didn't stay long. For some reason she wasn't in the mood to sit on the fire escape for a late-night chat, and considerate as always, Vincent did not pry and left her alone with her thoughts. Tonight had been the first evening in a few days that her schedule and Heather's synched up, and she had been looking forward to hanging out with her sister over spicy noodles and a DVD. Cat had dinner all laid out when Heather arrived home from her business trip, which she reported was just horrible. Well, she said, it was fine professionally, but personally it really sucked. She said that Josh had come to surprise her in Atlantic City, but instead of being impressed by the romantic gesture, Heather admitted that she was annoyed. Cat did not want to criticize her sister or to give her any unwanted advice, but it disappointed her to listen to her disparage Josh, who really was a nice guy and a good boyfriend. She hated to watch her sister cheat on him, but she held her tongue, and just let her go on rationalizing a decision to break up with him.

Cat had asked her if someone else was in the picture, someone like the guy who was in their apartment raiding the refrigerator some weeks ago? Heather howled with laughter at that, and took a sip of wine smiling secretively. Judging by the sparkle in her eyes Cat knew that she was bursting to tell her.

Evan. Her sister told her that she wanted Evan. There must have been a wide-eyed, quizzical quality to her reaction that Heather noticed, because she could see all the buoyancy go out of her sister, like a balloon that had the air taken out of it. Despite her surprise, Cat smiled and told her to ask him out, if that's what she wanted, but her encouragement didn't seem to convince Heather. Each of them later watched the DVD with a distractedness that cast a pall over the rest of their evening.

Cat sat up to fluff her pillow and then plopped forcefully back upon it. She wasn't completely blind to the subtle (and perhaps not-so-subtle) ways that Evan let her know that he cared. But the question was: was she in love with him? Being with Vincent was familiar terrain, even though it was frustrating, thrilling, and sometimes frightening—but always, her past relationships ended up being just…complicated. Heather's startling confession nagged at her, and suddenly Cat had to force herself to take stock of what she thought about her colleague. She felt safe and normal around Evan. Being with him might be frustrating and frightening, but it could also be thrilling, and really, just the opposite of complicated. She had never really seen him in a romantic light, but surely, he deserved some consideration. He was more than a co-worker and an acquaintance. For an acquaintance would not volunteer to accompany her to her dad's engagement party, help cover for her when she was being investigated by Internal Affairs, teach her how to hit a softball, or go undercover with her in a bordello. These were not the acts of someone who was merely a co-worker or an acquaintance—these were things that that people did when they wanted to show they loved you.

* * *

Miss Smoak's metallic blue nails glittered as she pressed in a series of numbers and activated the security unit. "See? Easy!" she beamed at Evan.

"Quite," Evan grinned. "Well, thanks for everything, Miss Smoak," he said, extending his palm for a handshake.

Miss Smoak looked down and then firmly grasped it. "Oh. Yes, um, on behalf of Queen Consolidated, I appreciate the opportunity."

Evan opened the door of his lab, but paused when he heard her call, "Dr. Marks?" He turned around to her looking nervously at him. "I know you don't even know me, and you probably have a girlfriend, or a wife, maybe, that you've celebrated with….Oh what am I doing, I never do this…." she trailed off.

He tried to suppress a grin at her argument with herself. "What is it, Miss Smoak?"

She pushed her eyeglasses up. "I was just…just wondering if you wanted to get a drink sometime. With me. To celebrate your grant?"

"You're asking me out?"

"Well, if you want to put a label to this, we can call it a date." Her eyes squarely met his and he could see her cheeks turning pink. "Or…or not, you know, keep things casual. Just two people having a conversation about science and technology."

Evan chuckled. He'd been drinking far too much solitary whiskey lately. In the contours of Miss Smoak's face he saw a specific clarity. There was something in her eyes as she waited for his answer: a patina of hope, a hint of promise. "A conversation with some alcohol would be nice."

She breathed a sigh of relief. "Oh, that's great. I'm free any night this week."

"Tonight suits me just fine."

She smiled broadly. "Okay. So, um, if we're going to have conversations over alcohol, we should at least start by going on a first-name basis. My name's Felicity," she said, extending her hand out for another handshake.

Evan smiled and held it, a little longer than necessary to shake hands in a professional manner. "Your name means luck and happiness."

"Well, yeah, long story…." she rolled her eyes playfully.

Evan thought about how he hadn't felt happy in a long time. "I'm Evan. Do you like your wine white or red?"

"I favor red. And I'm really pleased to make your acquaintance, Evan."

* * *

_A/N: In the most recent ep of "Arrow," poor Felicity was disappointed when she didn't get a promised bottle of red wine from Oliver Queen. So in this chapter, I made sure the underappreciated Miss Smoak will get her deserved wine!_


	6. Aqua Vitae

**Aqua Vitae**

"I am woman, hear me drink!"

-Tess toasting to Cat and Heather

* * *

**Evening, February 14**

A shivering Felicity Smoak waited under the narrow awning of the precinct's local hangout. The bar had become where she'd meet Evan after work, since it was also conveniently located near her apartment. For what seemed like the umpteenth time that evening, she checked her watch. Every time she did the hands did not seem to be moving, so gave up trying to track how long Evan would keep her waiting—again. It was raining softly, a cobwebby tingle on her face, which she anticipated, having endured New York City winters her entire life, would eventually change to feathery bits of snow. And when it did, it would fall moist and heavy for miles all around, so that the earth and sky were almost indivisible. Sharp, cold wind blew, biting at her flesh, insinuating itself into the marrow of her bones. She fought the urge to text Evan, and then decided that it was better to go inside the bar; at least she could order a drink to warm up.

**x – x**

Cat shifted on her barstool and swirled the amber liquid inside her glass before taking a cautious sip. Jameson wasn't everyone's first choice of liquid medication, and having a beer to cry in seemed too cliché, so she opted for a warmed, neat brandy. What did spirits like this used to be called? She searched her mind for the Latin phrase…aqua vitae, or "water of life." She sure needed something life-affirming in her system right now. It was Valentine's night and here she was, a perfect incarnation of a miserable country tune, sinking her sorrows because she didn't want to go home to a lonely apartment and because Tess was out with Mr. February. She curled her lip at the flagrant reminders of this Hallmark holiday: red paper hearts and the Cupid cutouts that were slapped onto the bar's walls. Lately she was seeing red everywhere—not just in the decorative tokens of Valentine's Day, but in the roses that were delivered to Tess from her firefighter boyfriend, and even in Vincent's ginger-haired ex-fiancée Alex, who came into the precinct earlier that morning to file a report on a suspected stalker.

Tonight, the bar was quieter than usual: a few patrons sitting at the small wooden tables and some in the booths, but no blue that she recognized. _That's because most people are out on romantic dates, _she thought grimly to herself. She missed her friends, especially Evan. Ever since she'd asked for a rain check on his invitation to dinner, he no longer came upstairs to give her or Tess lab results. He either sent a morgue assistant to relay the more urgent findings, or he emailed his report. She wondered briefly if he was avoiding her, or if he truly was inundated with work. Once, she had gone down to the morgue herself under the pretense of getting some prelim info on an accidental death. But the longer she stayed and tried to steer the conversation to a more personal level, asking how he was doing and what he'd been up to lately, the colder the vibes she was getting from him. She finally left his office, disconsolate, after he had coolly and politely excused himself with the age-old explanation of being really busy.

A young woman perched herself on a barstool after peeling off her winter coat and placing it and her umbrella on the stool between them. "Usual—glass of red, please," she ordered from the bartender, and she pulled her phone from her clutch. Then, changing her mind, she threw it back in and snapped the clutch shut. "Nope, not going to text him," she said to herself, but it was loud enough for Cat to hear. She took a surreptitious look at her. The woman looked nice, with her cashmere cardigan belted over what Cat could tell was a designer sheath dress. Her blonde hair fell in shiny, loose waves down her back.

"Your date running late?" Cat ventured.

The woman smiled at Cat wistfully. "Yeah. He's working late. Again."

"Seems crummy to keep you waiting on Valentine's Day."

"Well, he's been pretty swamped with work. Which, you know, I get. His job's pretty demanding."

Cat knew what it felt like to come in second, and it troubled her that someone else on this night was feeling that same way. "Maybe that's telling you something? Maybe if the work is more important, then you should really think about whether that's something you could live with. Not being at the top of his priority list."

At this, the woman winced, and she took a sip of her just-served wine. She brought her hand up to her face, as though to touch something that usually was there—_like eyeglasses, perhaps,_ Cat thought—and then realizing it wasn't, she hastily put her hand down and started fiddling with her clutch. Cat realized that it was like an unconscious tic, something that she might do when she was nervous or worried. She was assessing this woman, like she would a perp in the interrogation room. "I don't think I could tell him to always put me first," the woman said simply.

"Why not?" Cat turned to face her. Emboldened by the brandy, Cat spoke in a rush, launching into a tirade, her tone thick with unbridled hostility. Whether her motivation was feeling personally unfulfilled, or jealous of a pretty girl who at least had a boyfriend, she found herself letting loose her frustrations to someone she didn't even know. "Who do these guys think they are, anyway? What makes them so special that we'd sacrifice our integrity, our self-respect, everything… for them? So they could kick us around and treat us like dirt? I bet your boyfriend's one of those wishy-washy types who likes to keep girls guessing. One night he just shows up on your fire escape and tells you that you mean everything, and the next he doesn't want to move forward 'cause he's afraid. Like he's made that decision for you! You know what you should do?

The woman stared at her, considering. Cat took it as a cue to plow ahead. "Stand up to him and tell him you aren't going to be sloppy seconds to his job." When she didn't respond, Cat suddenly felt mortified. "I'm so sorry, I was being intrusive and presumptuous…forget what I just said."

The woman shook her head. "No, no, I think you make a lot of sense. It's just…" she broke off.

"…it's not that simple and you care about him a lot." Cat finished for her.

She smiled. "Not that I'm not pissed because I am really hungry right now and he promised to be here a half hour ago." She swiveled around to face Cat. "I had a pretty boring life before I met him. And I swear I'm not in denial when I say this: he's worth waiting for. He really is one of the nice ones."

"You're lucky then. I hope he knows what he has in you."

"I know this probably sounds stupid, but the way I look at it, today is a day to celebrate love. I know that love is demanding, but it also means that we have to compromise. For so many people it's always about what they're missing, or what they want. And when we focus on what we don't have, we end up feeling frustrated and sad." She got up and gathered her things in one hand and her wine glass in another. "I'm going to wait in a booth by the window," she told the bartender.

"Well. I hope you don't have much longer to wait."

"Thanks, me too. Have a good night."

Cat tapped the ornate wooden bar, signaling for another round.

**x – x**

"I'm so sorry I'm late, sweetheart," Evan apologized, planting a quick kiss on Felicity's upturned lips. He was holding a rather sad-looking single red rose and he set it gently on the table next to her wineglass. One of the petals fell off the bloom as she picked it up and held it to her nose. Felicity said nothing, and patiently held Evan's remorseful gaze. "I have a good excuse. Want to hear it?" he smiled ruefully as he shrugged off his leather jacket and slid into the booth.

Felicity picked up the fallen petal and tried to wedge it between the other petals, and as Evan watched her put her pitiful rose back together he felt even more horrible. "What is it this time, Dr. Marks?" she finally said. When she referred to him by his last name Evan knew she wasn't happy. It took a lot to get Felicity irritated, he discovered. She was the most supportive and understanding woman he'd ever been with. But even saints had their limits, and Evan knew that making her wait was inexcusable on Valentine's Day, of all days.

"First off, you look and smell as beautiful as that rose, darling." And it was true. Her skin looked soft against her aubergine cashmere sweater, with its rich dark color that brought out the hue of her eyes. The gaze that was coming from them, though, more so without eyeglasses, was penetrating enough to make him shift uneasily in the booth. They had dated long enough for Evan to learn that Felicity could get pretty fiery, but it him more nervous when that fire was simmering just beneath the surface.

"Listen, I may be blonde, but I'm not that blonde. Flattery will get you nowhere." She took a sip of her red wine.

"You're right, darling. But I want to explain. I'm nearly finished with charting the research data, and as you know, I've been prepping for the association conference next month. I originally wanted my focus on how this research could uncover ways we can overcome sickness and disease. You know, talk about how we can perhaps start to chip away at eradicating cancer.

"So, here's the exciting part. It came to me just as I was about to come and meet you," he continued. His eyes twinkled and Felicity could see that this really meant something, that this work was special to him, and she felt her heart turn over. "I was thinking about focusing on a new kind of human evolution. Show that there is a new kind of survival of the fittest based on one's genetic makeup. This really could be a study on the origins of a super species, new type of human being….I don't know, what do you think?"

"Sounds super, Professor X," Felicity responded. She really wanted to share in his excitement, but she couldn't help but still feel the sting of his neglect tonight.

"Felicity, I know I'm beginning to sound like a broken recording." Evan took her hand to show her he was taking her seriously, that what told her weren't just empty promises. "And I wouldn't blame you if you had the impression that you don't matter to me, but you do."

"Evan, I don't mean to—"

"Really, sweetheart, you do. Right now, I've got to show the grant committee that their investment in this project is yielding results. But once I get this presentation out of the way…really, we can go on holiday together, if you like." His voice turned low and serious. "The association is meeting this year in Houston, which doesn't compare to Cancun, but it's certainly warmer than it is here. How about we make a weekend of it? What do you say, my little valentine?"

Felicity laughed and pushed a stray strand of hair behind her ear. She had a friendly crystalline laugh that hit his heart and lifted it on the strength of something like helium and light. She was the main reason he hadn't sunken into a weakened torpor of despair after his kidnapping. He was decidedly charmed and he slipped into the narrow space of her side of the booth, knowing he was forgiven. He leaned in close to her, just a kiss away, and before he could ask her another question that hung on his lips, he pressed them to hers.

**x – x**

As she settled her tab, Cat remembered the woman's parting words to her, that her date was one of the nice guys worth waiting for. What—or who—was she waiting for? She was becoming someone she no longer recognized—someone who spent her days being suspicious of others, whose heart had become frighteningly callous, who was cynical of a day for celebrating love.

Outside, the rain continued to fall. Cat drew her coat tighter around her and thought about what Evan said when she asked him for a rain check: "It's going to have to rain sometime, Cat." He told her he was patient, and that he would wait. She wasn't going to let him wait any longer. Like the gently falling rain, she was going to let herself take a leap of faith and do what it did: just fall.


End file.
